Would You Like Iguana With That?
by Lady NeverAfterNon
Summary: A series of one shots depicting the escapades of the Lone Wanderer and the people she meets: her friends, enemies, and the people who just die by random accident. Now includes Lone Wanderer turned Courier in New Vegas. Read and Review, pretty please!
1. Charon

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own any of Bethesda's game or characters. Kyra, however, is mine. She is a tad clumsy and a true softie at heart, though this is somewhat defeated by the fact she's a complete klepto and addicted to smokes, booze, buffout, and psycho. Charon and Star Paladin Cross put up with her though and haven't shot her yet. I suppose that's a good thing. Though she doesn't want to fire Charon and see what'll happen._

**Author's Note:** _I love this game. Almost as much as BioShock. Om nom nom nom. So here is my hand at a Fallout Fic, I hope it goes alright. And yes, I have a nasty habit of falling in love with my tanks so there is a bit of Charon/LW in here. Haha, I'm so predictable. _

_Only fault I had with this game, besides the stupid ending and not being able to beat Amata to death, was not being able to form relationships with characters. If this were Dragon Age Origins I'd totally trick Charon into loving me and we'd blow up the Purifier and take over the wasteland._

_Listened to Sevendust's _Foreve_r an absolutely ridiculous amount of times while playing Fallout III. Don't ask me how many, I am ashamed of myself. Needless to say it became my theme song for the game. That and Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros' song _Home_._

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**Would You Like Iguana with that?**

**By: **_Lady NeverAfterNon_

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Charon was still rather gob smacked over the last few minutes. In the space of exactly fifteen minutes he'd managed to get his freedom (well, freedom from that jack-off Ahzrukhal anyway), shoot his former employer in the head (several times, and it had been glorious), and show the ghoul city his literal and metaphorical ass.

Still, whenever he closed his eyes he half expected that when he opened them he would still be rotting in that damn corner back in the Ninth Circle. Ahzrukhal would have something nasty to say and he'd be expected to beat the living crap out of someone on the creepy bartender's hearsay. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few moments, then popped them open again when he tripped over a rock.

Damn.

The smoothskin was still there, skipping along a few feet in front of him, her dirty black dreads bouncing like millions of fat bungee cords from the back of her head. Every few feet the long silver beat stick she had strapped to her back would slip off and smack her in the leg. She'd attached it so badly that it wouldn't stay on, but it was still stuck well enough that it still stayed on long enough to tangle in that blood red sexy-time lingerie she insisted on wearing underneath all of her armor.

Charon watched the Lone Wanderer do that odd little dance for the umpteenth time to get herself untangled and rolled his filmy blue eyes. He was surprised she was even still alive. Any crackhead who wandered into the waste wearing a bootie call outfit was practically wearing a neon sign that broadcasted: shoot me please, I'm stupid. Even her armor looked like she had taken bits of leather and metal and buckles and slapped it all together with glue and spit.

But then again, he supposed, maybe she knew it. Scars and bruises crisscrossed her badly sunburned white skin. His clouded gaze followed a particularly nasty one down the back of her leg, over the top of her calf to where it disappeared into her heavy duty boots. Obviously she had tried to start something without the proper footwear. Idiot.

He was jerked sharply from his reverie as gunshots struck the rocks beside him. In a flash, Charon had his combat shotgun off of his back and the business end pointing at two raiders who had come charging up over the hill and were looking to try their luck at not dying. Fat chance. The shotgun spat fire and bullets, and the raider who had been holding the hunting rifle slumped backward like a crumpled piece of wet laundry.

As for the other one...Charon leaned onto the butt of his shotgun and watched the other raider and his new employer dance. Charon's mouth was open in blatant stupefied shock. He couldn't help it. They both looked ridiculous.

They were running around each other in circles, the raider's pool cue smacking against her lead pipe, neither really getting a proper shot in, but both trying their damnedest to kill the other. When he figured he he'd been watching them for at least two minutes, and the best either of them had been able to do was get in a couple of good lacerations, he snarled, irritated. His shotgun whipped up and spoke, and the raider's head exploded like an overripe mutfruit.

He watched the Lone Wanderer straighten up and with a rather dignified air, wiped splattered raider bits off of her armor and clothes.

"I had him," she informed him primly, "I'll never get any better if you keep stealing my kills."

He didn't say anything, just watched her with his perfected trademark poker face firmly in place.

He honestly didn't know how she'd managed to survive this long on her own. Well, that didn't matter anymore. She had him now, and he'd look after her. And he was pretty certain he'd do a better job of it than she did.

Speaking of, he spotted some super mutants off in the distance. It was obvious they needed killing.

He left her standing there giving him a spectacular evil fish eye, and moved off towards the super mutants and began to jeer at them. "Yeah! What's the matter, can't stand the sight of your own blood?"

It worked like a charm. They were after him like flies on shit. Awesome.

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_Earlier that day_

Kyra swore viciously as yet another Mutant popped out of nowhere just as she finished looting the dead corpse of his buddy. For what seemed the fiftieth time that day she dove to one side _almost _dodging gunfire, slapped a stimpak into the arm that the green monstrosity had managed to put out of commission, then proceeded to beat the ever living crap out of him with nothing but her lead pipe and a whole lot of angst.

Standing over his dead body she looked him over as she caught her breath. It was just her luck that the mutant had nothing really of value, just his hunting rifle and the ugly green hide on his back.

"I know this is the wasteland and all," she muttered, "but this is getting ridiculous. You'd think that in order to survive in this shitfield they'd scavenge a little. Even the raiders got better goods than this."

She gave the mutant a vicious kick, then hopped about on one foot when his heavy duty armor stubbed her toe through her combat boot. When her dignity finally surged back into control with almost shameful lack of speed, she straightened and keyed open her Pipboy, categorized her wounds and ran a quick inventory.

Kyra's lip curled in disgust. At the Universe, really, rather than herself. She'd already run out of ammo for her shotgun and assault rifle, both of which were ready to come to bits anyway so the point was moot. Her Combat Knife had shattered some five mutants and a mire lurk ago, and all she was left with now was a 10mm and her lead pipe. Not to mention that her stimpack collection was sadly lacking. Utterly. Freaking. Ridiculous.

Gob, bless him, had given her a lovely discount that morning when she'd set out from Megaton, and she had used it to stock up on her cheat shots. Mmmm, stimpaks. Life's little cheats when a dirty questionably stained mattress wasn't available. She'd bought Moira out of shotgun shells while simultaneously managing to slither out of agreeing to her latest bizarre request. She'd congratulated herself then on being extraordinarily lucky. But now that bright and promising morning was looking quite far away, as she used her last stimpak to fix up her trashed arm back to passable and she could feel outright exhaustion lurking at the edge of her consciousness.

She groaned. She poked at her Pipboy morosely. The nearest spot was Rivet City, and boy was she NOT looking forward to dealing with Harkness' bullshit. Honestly, the man must have a radroach rammed up his ass for the way he jumped her whenever she deigned to visit his precious floating bucket. She most certainly did not want to see him deal with someone who was honest to God shady. Though, then again, that might be funny.

Kyra sat down in the dirt and looked up at the sky. Dusk had fallen over the wasteland and darkness stalked at the edge of the horizon. She sighed and massaged her temples. She was not too tired to push on, she told herself firmly. She was NOT. She sighed again. Who was she kidding? Another five minutes and she would be passed out from exhaustion. Then she'd probably be eaten by a super mutant. Ick. she shuddered. The thought of ending up in a gore bag was enough to shock a little bit more energy into her tired body.

She heaved herself to her feet and stared at the hulking form of Rivet City, floating in the dirty water like a beached whale. And she imagined Harkness with his hands on his hips working her over. And not in a good way.

Ugh, maybe she wasn't too tired. She consulted her Pipboy. Nope, not too tired to push on, not at all. Harkness did that to a girl. She was not in the mood to play twenty questions with the man. That and their damn bridge. In hindsight it was extremely practical, but waiting for the stupid thing to swing over was a complete pain in the ass.

Kyra swung her lead pipe onto her back, awkwardly because her arm was still not behaving itself properly, then continued on. She gave Rivet City one last long look. She could barely make out the tiny forms of Harkness and some caravan leader. She shook her head and pressed on.

Anacostia Station flickered in dirty neon lights in the distance. Kyra crept closer and could just make out stairs leading into a deep hole in the ground. She stared at it. Then she looked back at Rivet City. Rivet City or the creepy, dark, most likely raider/feral ghoul infested hole in the ground? Voices drifted over too her from the Rivet City bridge. Harkness was chewing out the caravan leader for something or another. Kyra shuddered.

Creepy dark hole in the ground it was.

She crept into Anacostia Crossing like a ninja, brandishing her lead pipe. Already she could hear the soft skittering of radroaches. She grinned. Dinner was at hand. Come here, little meat puddings with legs. Come to mommy.

Six radroaches later, she straightened and wiped her mouth off with one filthy hand while dragging the flat of her little knife against the leather of her armor, cleaning the brown goo off of the blade. She burped, then covered her mouth out of habit, mortified. She half expected Amata to be behind her, ready to smack her upside the head for her lack of social graces. Then she shook herself. The only things for miles were super mutants, feral ghouls, and raiders. And she seriously doubted whether they'd be upset at her lack of table manners.

Kyra sheathed the short, rather useless little blade, and pressed on through the tunnels. She had a nasty feeling that they could go on forever, and she was so NOT in the mood for forever. Some of the lights were still working in patches and that was almost worse than no lights at all. Shadows flickered uncomfortably along the walls, and the patches where they clashed with the harsh florescent lights brought to life monstrous shapes that were almost alive.

The Lone Wanderer skirted the patches of bright light, and stuck to the darkness. The lights screwed with her night vision most painfully, and the few seconds of blindness she suffered as she stumbled out of each patch of light was horrid.

It seemed like days went by down in those tunnels though she knew it was only a few hours, and she began to wonder if she would ever find her way out at all. She picked unhappily at the few raider camps she stumbled across, knowing she needed junk to sell for caps, but was afraid to weigh herself down. She had no idea when at all she'd make it to a safe haven, assuming she did make it at all.

Kyra looked up blearily at the new patch of light that popped up and punched her rudely in the eyeballs, started, then began running and stumbling towards it. Actual light, and not the florescent ghosts that flickered on and off in the tunnels.

She threw the metal gates open with a loud bang and ran gasping into the fresh air. She collapsed at the top of the stairs and looked out over the trashed, wide open area that her Pipboy informed her was once the National Mall. Air. Beautiful delicious air. The Lone Wanderer sucked it into her lungs greedily. She pulled off her motorcycle helmet and dropped it next to her with a loud clunk. She ran her fingers through her hair. The helmet had matted her dreadlocks to her head in awkward clumps, and she carefully unstuck them one by one.

"Having a good time, tourist?"

The raspy voice that came from just over her left shoulder nearly scared her out of her skin. Kyra jumped a foot into the air and flopped awkwardly over to her left, landing on her butt in the dirt. The lead pipe she'd grabbed for got stuck between her armor and her dress and she ended up almost wrapping herself into a pretzel attempting to get at it.

After thirty seconds of trying to un-stick herself she realized that she hadn't died yet and the scary something wasn't attempting to attack her, so she must be safe for the moment. On top of that she realized she must look extremely stupid flailing about in the dirt in a too short dress and armor trying to get at a weapon that was out of reach and stuck.

She sat up with as much dignity as she could muster, coughed, fluffed her dreads out with one hand, then laced her fingers together primly on her knees. She looked up.

"Yes?"

The ghoul woman in front of her said nothing, and was instead taking long drags on her smoke. The grin she had tugging at the corner of her shriveled lips suggested the air of one who had just been treated to an off color joke and had loved it.

Kyra frowned, "Don't think I'm a tourist. I think they were all killed off when the Apocalypse happened."

The ghoul woman snorted, and smoke shot from the remnants of her nose like a dragon. "Oh come on. Here you are in the mall of our nation's fine capital, taking in the sights and visiting the monuments. Face it, you're a tourist."

The Lone Wanderer sighed. "Point to you. The Washington Monument is rather impressive. Being so pointy and all. I'm Kyra by the way."

The ghoul grinned, displaying a mouth full of yellow and decaying teeth. "The name's Willow. Smoke?"

Kyra eyed the cigarette dangling in Willow's brittle fingers, shrugged, took it, and pulled in a long drag. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the nicotine hit her like a sucker punch, and she sighed happily. Willow chuckled at her obvious bliss, sounding like an old 50's Chevy engine trying to turn over and failing.

After a few more drags Kyra handed back the cigarette and got to her feet, grunting as her limbs protested any movement that involved leaving the patch dirt she'd been sitting in.

"Know any place I could put myself back together?" she asked, attempting to sound casual but failing. Badly.

Willow let loose another jet of smoke. Kyra fought not to drool. It was bad enough that she was addicted to the stuff, letting it show was another matter entirely. She was NOT going to bum smokes off of a random stranger she just met, no siree. Daddy dearest taught her manners, yes, yes he did. Or at least he tried.

"The Gates to Underworld are straight through here."

At Kyra's blank expression Willow rolled her eyes and said, exasperated, "You know, city of ghouls? It's right inside the giant skull, you can't miss it."

Kyra stared at her, realized she wasn't kidding, then laughed. She stuck out her hand and Willow shook it.

"Thanks for your help," she said gratefully.

The Lone Wanderer strode off, feeling slightly better. Maybe things were looking up. Maybe the Universe would quite throwing mud at her and send her some daisies. Right. And maybe mole rats could fly. She really should know better by now. Kyra shuddered and resisted the urge to pull her beat stick off of her back and hold it in front of her. She had a feeling it would not bode well to barge into the ghoul's city looking dangerous. Well, not that she looked dangerous she amended, she was about to fall apart after all. It was the thought that counted.

With a deep breath, and a rather pensive look at the massive leering skull right above her head, she pushed open the heavy doors to Underworld. The giant double doors creaked with just as much enthusiastic ominous vigor that one would expect from a city inhabited by ghouls. Kyra glared at the hinges. She'd see the little buggers oiled if it was the last thing she ever did.

She strode in through the doors, and it was like nothing she had ever imagined. Her boots clicked against the marble quietly, and after only the knowing the crunch of dirt, it was almost alien. The slightest sound echoed off of the walls and she found herself hunching inward slightly. She almost felt like she was in church. It was...it was almost CLEAN in here. She stopped.

It seemed as though hundreds of eyes were on her. Ghouls stopped what ever it was they were doing, and stared at her. Kyra offered them a wobbly little smile, then skedaddled up the nearest staircase. Anything to get away from those thousand yard stares.

She stopped outside the first door she came to. The Ninth Circle was inscribed on a plaque just outside the door. Well, that was that then. She sincerely hoped that whoever named the bar was ignorant and had never read Dante's Inferno. She was so not in the mood for a Dante junkie who thought it would be cute to replicate an accurate description of the sin pit for Betrayers.

Kyra pushed the door open and crept in. More stares, but less eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief. Blessed quiet. She looked around. Once they decided she was uninteresting, the ghouls ignored her. She was grateful for that. It was a traditional bar, besides the fact that the patrons looked like the walking dead, and she began to debate on what she wanted to get. A glass of nuka cola and whiskey sounded absolutely divine at the moment. She noticed a ghoul standing in the corner. All by himself. She noticed that the hair dusting his mottled scalp was a rusty orange. She grinned. And he was a redhead to boot. Time to be friendly. She needed all the allies she could get while she played song and dance with her father and the Enclave and the entire bloody wasteland.

She almost chickened out. The man was freakin' huge. "Hi...I was wondering-"

He cut her off sharply. "Talk to Ahzrukhal."

She blinked. "Yeah, but-"

He cut her off again. "Talk. To. Ahzrukhal."

Well, she could certainly take a hint. She huffed, slightly insulted at his blatant rejection. She knew she hadn't had a bath in a while but she didn't think she smelled THAT bad. She turned and wandered over to the bar and sat down heavily onto a dirty stool. Her armor clanked and got stuck, and for a moment while trying to un-stick herself she almost fell off of the bar stool. When she finally got herself back together there was a ghoul in a smelly pinstripe suit sanding behind the bar in front of her. He leered at her suggestively, and her eyes were drawn to the mucous-y green goo staining his skull. She firmly squashed a shudder that wanted most vehemently to make itself seen. She won that battle though. Lucky for her.

"Well now, lookee here. We got us a smoothskin that I ain't ever seen before. I'm Ahzrukhal, and this...this is the Ninth Circle."

He paused for what she could only assume was dramatic effect and she fought the urge to roll her eyes.

"Folks got problems, and I got liquor to sell to 'em. Well, liquor and a few other pick me ups. You need anything, you just let me know sweet cheeks."

He leaned onto the bar, his face uncomfortably close to her own. Kyra didn't move away. Hopefully he'd give her her drink cheap for the show she was putting on. Then again...she gave him a once over. The man was a complete smarmosaur. She leaned back. She suddenly had a sinking suspicion that a simple beer would cost her more than what her lead pipe and stimpak collection together was worth.

She jerked her head towards the huge silent ghoul in the corner. "What's the deal with Mr. Grouchypants?"

Ahzrukhal chuckled low in his throat, and she struggled not to go running for a bath of bleach and self-respect.

"That's Charon. Let's just say...well, he's a loyal employee. Don't mess with me, and he won't mess with you."

Kyra raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. Ahzrukhal grinned at her.

"I hold his contract, which makes me his employer. He will do what I ask when I ask, without question," he paused, and his eyes drifted towards the neckline of her dress, "You see, Charon grew up around a very interesting group of individuals. They...well, I guess you could say that they brainwashed him. He is absolutely loyal to whomever holds his contract. Unfailing, unflinching, until the day that employment ends."

Kyra's other brow joined its friend. "Huh. How interesting. I'll do a Mutfruit Vodka Slammer."

The ghoul mixed her drink slowly with a frown, obviously put out that she wasn't paying closer attention to his little spiel. He set it in front of her carefully and the moment his hand left the glass she grabbed it. The alcohol slid down her throat and she sighed happily.

Ahzrukhal continued to watch her with his beady glazed eyes. "Don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that he holds no end of animosity towards me. But so long as he is my employee, he is as gentle as a teddy bear."

Kyra sipped her drink thoughtfully and looked looked back over to the hulking form of Charon in the corner. Heh, teddy bear indeed. Once he realized her eyes were burning holes into him, he raised his gaze to meet hers. The ghoul's filmy blue eyes met hers and he growled at her. She giggled, the Mutfruit Slammer enthusiastically reassuring her that growls meant 'oh baby, oh baby.'

_'Oh my god he's a ginger and he can't get away from me. Hallelujah, thank you Universe_, Kyra thought.

The Lone Wanderer turned back to Ahzrukhal. She held out her hand. "1,000 caps for him. Give."

The ghoul pretended to think on it a moment. Now that he knew he had what she wanted he was obviously going to milk for all it was worth.

"Hmmm...well he is a highly valuable asset to me and to the Ninth Circle..."

Her hand never wavered. "2,000."

Ahzrukhal caved, the lure of bottle cap currency too much for him to resist. "Done. I'll give you the honor of informing him yourself."

Kyra slapped two bottles full of caps down onto the counter. Ahzrukhal slid over Charon's contract, a dirty almost illegibal scrap of paper, and began to count out the caps greedily. Kyra snatched up the contract and stuffed it down the front of her dress and strode over to the lone ghoul in the corner. She opened her mouth. Before she could get the words out, he beat her to the punch.

He was obviously annoyed at her repeated attempts to get him to talk to her. She wondered absently how long it would take her to bother him into shooting her. She grinned. _ 'Bet he's wicked fast with that boomstick of his', _she thought.

"Talk to-"

Kyra shook her finger at him. "Oh no you don't Princess, you're mine now."

He remained stone faced. "I belong to no one. If you are my new employer, then I will serve you. But first, I must take care of something. Wait here."

Kyra of course did not obey, and followed him bemusedly back across the bar. She watched his progress attentively and her booze addled mind murmured most indecently about his nice broad shoulders. She slid into her seat to watch the show. And she had lovely suspicion that it would be awesome.

"Ahzrukhal. I am told that I am no longer in your service."

Charon's voice was a soft rumble, and anyone who heard it knew to get the hell out of Dodge. Kyra's eyes flicked to Ahzrukhal, who had obviously not noticed the dangerous lilt to his former employee's speech. The bartender glanced up, still engrossed in the process of recounting his new caps.

"Yes, that's-"

Charon had his shotgun out of his back holster faster than the Lone Wander could say, "Oh shit." Thunder and fire roared from the combat shotgun's muzzle and Ahzrukhal's head exploded with a meaty _whumph_. Kyra blinked. Then noticed that a bit of entrails had landed in the remains of her drink. Blast.

Charon straightened and looked at her. She stared at him. Was that a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth? Little bastard was awfully proud of himself. She hopped over the bar and proceeded to loot Ahzrukhal's corpse. She was kinda proud of him too. He was a wicked good shot. She straightened and cursed. All her two thousand caps had rolled up underneath the bar to where she couldn't get at them. Bugger. She looked up at her new bodyguard.

"Why?"

"Ahzrukhal was an evil bastard. So long as he held my contract I was honor bound to do as he commanded, " Charon deadpanned, "But now you are my employer, which freed me to rid the world of that disgusting little mole rat. And now, for good or ill, I serve you."

If the ghoul had thought that would frighten or dissuade her, he was dead wrong. The Lone Wanderer batted her eyes at him, "I love you already. Let's go."

They both strode out of the Ninth Circle, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction behind them. It was funny how that would soon become a regular occurrence.


	2. Gob and Nova

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own any of Bethesda's game or characters. Kyra, however, is mine_.

**Author's Note:** _Colin Moriarty is on my hate list for this game. Along with Ahzrukhal (the whole ten seconds he was alive), Tennpenny and the creeper who runs the clothing store, Roy Philips, Greta, AMATA, Confessor Cromwell (just because he's in that damn puddle every time I see him and he's not dead of radiation poisoning), Butch. He's irksome with his little grease wannabe impression, and that creepy Bittercup chick from Big Town who's in love with me._

_Absolutely LOVE Willow, she's snarky and awesome. And Nova even though her voice scares me sometimes, and Gob cause he gives me discounts, and Tulip and Winthrop, and Star Paladin Cross cause cause she has a hammer and is almost invincible, and the Cerberus thing they've got at the ghoul city, and my butler who feeds me and tells me jokes, and Harkness who has perfected the ability to be a sadist and completely adorable at the same time. And Liam Neeson, who is my father and he loves me and thinks I'm awesome. Ha. Take that Universe._

_So I've been trying to write these little ficlets how I played the game. And yes, I did finally just get annoyed with Moriarty and shoot him. I regret nothing._

**Warning:**_ Bit of a language warning here. Critics, ye be warned._

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**This Drunkie Will Be Seeing You Now**

**By:** _Lady NeverAfterNon_

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Nova rolled the cigarette nervously in between her fingers. She could feel the familiar drug itch tugging at her, urging her to fix it, scratch it- anything so long as she got her relief. This cold turkey shit was freakin' HARD. She lit the smoke, put it to her lips with trembling fingers and inhaled. The nicotine rolled over her fraying nerves like a balm and for a moment the drug cravings were pushed back. But not for long, she knew they would be back to haunt her.

They always came back to haunt her.

Harsh voices jerked her from her cigarette induced nirvana. Her eyes flicked to the bar and immediately registered Gob's tense shoulders and his hands clenched around an empty pint, the bare tendons in his hands standing out with strain he was putting on them. Her eyes slide to the left of the ghoul and registered Moriarty, his face purple with rage and spit flying from his mouth as he screamed at Gob.

"-and yer worthless, ye think ye get a break? Get up ye sad sack o' shit!"

Nova closed her eyes, but she still couldn't shut out the harsh sound of the back of Moriarty's hand connecting with Gob's skull. She found herself taking a deep shuddering breath. It was getting worse. Moriarty had been found pissing in the vat and it was only a matter of time before Lucas Simms came round to have a word. Moriarty was losing everything, and knew it, and Gob was playing the whipping boy.

She didn't know why it bothered her. Gob was sweet to her, yes, and polite (only man there who was actually, she was a whore after all and everyone knew it), but in the end he was still a ghoul. A dead man walking. Still, his skin didn't bother her though it frightened most and the kids wouldn't go near him. She also didn't actually find his smell offensive: a cloying heavy musky scent but altogether not unpleasant. Still, Lucy West, and especially Jericho, made a point of pointing it out every time the ghoul walked past in vicious angry tones that cut like knives.

It was amazing that it could still bother her at a time like this.

Her hooded gaze slid up from where it had been uncomfortably weighted to the floor and up to the sight of Gob's tense shoulders and Moriarty's angry snarling face.

"Don't hit me!" Gob's voice broke her heart, again, -it did every time she heard it- and she told herself firmly that she had absolutely no idea why.

"I can do what I want. Ye know why?" Moriarty spat viciously, "Yer mine, ye whiney little bitc-"

The door flew open and bounced off the wall with a harsh bang. The wind blew in bringing with it the acrid air and grit of the waste. Nova looked up, along with Gob and Moriarty and every drunken sod in the place. The Lone Wanderer stood silhouetted in the doorway.

She cut an imposing figure with the harsh evening light highlighting her armored body in the doorway of the saloon. Nova suspected that had been the plan all along, as the Lone Wanderer had always had an inkling towards the dramatic, and she had a soft spot for Nova and Gob. Moriarty's ghoul smack down could probably be heard all the way to the Brass Lantern.

Kyra shut the door with an equally loud but less impressive crash and tromped in, her heavy boots tracking mud and crap in a straight line to where Nova stood. Inwardly Nova cheered, knowing exactly what was coming, but outwardly her poker face was firmly in place as Moriarty seemed to be a happiness vampire and could leech it from his employees in seconds. Moriarty gave his best paying customer the evil fish eye, but he departed.

The Lone Wanderer's caps were good, and so long as she paid and didn't cause trouble he left her alone. Nova also suspected that the old geezer was still hoping the girl would do whatever it took to find her father, but the girl hadn't caved yet. Nova didn't expect she would either. Kyra Mcrea was horribly mule-headed when it came to getting her to do things she didn't want to do.

Kyra threw her pack next to the bar stool with a loud thud, splattering mud everywhere. She tossed a jug of caps at Nova, who caught them without even looking at them. Nova was moving even before she registered the thought.

She slid onto the stool next to the Lone Wanderer and slowly counted out the caps. She knew it was rather rude, but she couldn't help it. Force of habit. Besides, she knew Moriarty'd have her head if he knew she'd serviced a customer without counting the payment.

"Hundred Twenty Caps," the Lone Wanderer said tiredly. She looked at Gob, "I'll take a Bloody Deathclaw, please."

Nova chuckled lightly. Gob was the only one she knew who got the Lone Wanderer's please and thank you's. And Moriarty knew it. It infuriated the old man to no end when the girl fixed him with her surly stare, then turned right around and presented Gob with manners fit for a king.

Kyra slumped heavily on the barstool and sighed. She pulled off her metal helmet and dropped it on the floor, then she began her customary act of peeling her dirty dreadlocks away from her skull where the helmet had squashed them. Nova shook her head, then reached over to help. After all, she had paid the fee and Nova had done worse for less.

She had absolutely no idea why the Lone Wanderer shelled out one hundred twenty caps every time she blew through Megaton when she had a perfectly good house, but she wasn't complaining either. One hundred and twenty good caps just to listen to the girl bullshit, and to give back some of her own. No funny business. Nova frowned. The Lone Wanderer was weird like that. Nova made an annoyed sound. One stray dreadlock had decided to tangle itself into the back of the girl's combat shotgun like a centaur tentacle around a baby.

She tugged on it.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry. How'd you manage this, Miss Dangerous?" Nova tried to tug gently. Fat chance. That dread was stuck worse than a mole rat to a sewer.

"I had a mild disagreement with a robobrain up in the hills near Tennpenny tower." Kyra flopped out across the bar, sunburned arms stretched out in front of her like the stringy old noodles Moriarty sometimes gave Gob for dinner when he was in a bad mood.

Nova raised an eyebrow. "I was of the opinion that they didn't stop to chat. What did you disagree about?"

Kyra sighed heavily. "I was existing. How rude of me I know, but I just couldn't possibly stop. We came to blows over it."

Nova snorted and finished untangling the Lone Wanderer's hair. Come to blows in Lone-Wanderer-speak meant, 'I beat it to death with a blunt object then looted the body.'

"I wasn't aware your boy had let a mean old robot get you," Nova said sarcastically.

Kyra gave her the evil fish eye as she bound up her dreadlocks in a long pony tail that brushed her butt, "I left him at home with the dog. He got munched on a bit by a Yao Guai and he's still recuperating. Maybe he's making me mac' an cheese! Mmmm, love me some mac' and cheese."

Nova stared at her. "Charon cooks? Sorry honey, but if there was ever a man who looked like he wouldn't go near a stove with a ten foot pole, it'd be him."

Kyra laughed. "Yep. Found a shit load of iguana bits one day, brought it home and left it in the fridge. Had to leave him too cause he was busted up and I needed to make a run through the sewers for Moira. When I came back he was in the kitchen frying it all up and wearing a stupid prewar polka dot apron. Hottest thing ever. Jumped his bones after that, couldn't be helped. Not that I saw him complaining though. Anyways, dunno what he marinated it in, but it was damn good. I ate like a pig."

Nova choked at the mental images, then laughed.

Kyra watched Gob's progress with hungry eyes. The ghoul unhurriedly blended the irradiated canned tomatoes together with the booze, then poured the whole sludge together into a slightly icky looking iced over glass. Gob slide it across the counter towards her and her fingers scrabbled for it.

Kyra waved away the proffered straw and instead put her face straight into the glass. Happy gurgling slurping noises came from her end of the bar. Nova shook her head and looked at Gob. The ghoul's mouth was open slightly, incredulous at the comical display coming from the girl Three Dog dubbed 'Hero of the Waste'.

"If the Universe would come up with a way for me to smoke and drink at the same time, I would be a happy camper," Kyra muttered thickly.

"Amen baby." Nova tapped the counter to get Gob's attention. The ghoul's glassy eyes met hers, and she didn't look away.

"Scotch," she murmured.

Gob set a glass carefully in front of her and filled it. Moriarty would have his head if he knew they were skimming the inventory, but then again the old man pissed in the vat so Nova felt the point was rather moot. Not to mention that most of their fancy booze came from the Lone Wanderer anyway, as Gob bought off whatever wine, whiskey, beer, or vodka she'd managed to pick up in exchange for stimpaks.

Instead of downing it as she would have normally done, Nova sipped it, allowing the alcohol to burn its way down her throat and fill her with a steady warmth that made her stretch and sigh contentedly. She pushed the remainder back at Gob. He stared at her, and then the glass, a little uncertainly. He glanced at the back room where Moriarty lurked, then straightened his shoulders almost unnoticeably and tossed back the remainder of the scotch. He set the glass down firmly and looked at her.

Nova grinned at him. He did it like a pro. "Atta boy. Top us off again?"

Gob spared one more nervous glance at the back, then did as she asked.

Three shots later and they were both grinning like fools. The Lone Wanderer had emerged from the remains of her drink and was ranting about something to do with Nuka-Cola and killer robots and canoodling.

"-and THEN, I followed her around the whole damn hour and a half it took her to give me the entire friggen history of every shtuupid bottle in the place, and when I finally get outta there her boy jumps me and accuses me of tryin' to steal nookie from his lady. I mean, what the hell? Who does that?" Kyra glared mulishly into her empty glass, then waved it at Gob.

"Nother' Defclaw, please" she slurred.

Gob watched her open mouthed, then shook his head. He plucked her glass from her limp fingers and refilled it.

Nova sipped her scotch. "Let me get this straight. Some broad asked you to bring her Nuka Cola Quantum, and her boy wants you to bring it to him so he has a better chance of getting laid?"

"Yep. I'm the go to girl for all things Quantum. So I hit up that sshilly factory, nearly got killed by the Nuka Lurks. Nuka Lurks, can ya believe that? Worse than th' regular ones. Anyways, got all th' way down to th' ass end o' that factory, and it turns out I gotta go gallivanting all over for thirty stupid bottles of Cola. Not one Nuka-Cola in that factory. Why is it never easy? The Universe hates my face." By this time Kyra was gesturing wildly, and ended up knocking herself off of the barstool with her enthusiastic finish.

Nova and Gob stared at her empty barstool incredulously.

"I meant to do that," came a muffled voice from underneath the bar.

Kyra awkwardly heaved herself back onto the barstool and banged her head onto the counter. "I think I might be drunk," she muttered.

Gob threw back his head and laughed. His throaty chuckle scared the other drunks out of their stupor and they looked around wildly, obviously expecting an attack of some kind. Gob laughed until his sides hurt and he doubled over, clutching at them. Nova found a stupid grin had attached itself to her face as she watched him. She couldn't help it. His laughter was contagious.

"Shut up Gob!" Jericho's shout shocked the ghoul out of his happy buzz, and Gob's mouth snapped shut with a click.

Nova glared at Jericho. Jerk. She reached over and poked Gob in the stomach, absentmindedly noting that the boy had abs like iron. She wondered what it would be like to run her hands down them and- okay squashing that train of thought right now.

Gob quirked a small grin at her, letting her know it was okay and there was no harm done.

Nova sipped her scotch and watched him as he began to wipe down the counter. Gob's laugh was low and deep and the sound of it made her toes curl. It was like rocks in a coffee grinder, and she loved it. She had never heard it before; Gob NEVER laughed. Never. She decided right then and there, though she told herself firmly that it was purely platonic and there were no feelings attached, that she would do whatever she could to make sure she kept hearing it.

"You know, a genuinely nice boy in this day and age is like a jug of purified water in the middle of an irradiated outhouse," the Lone Wanderer remarked.

Nova opened her mouth to argue, deny it, anything. She did not like Gob. Not like that. They were coworkers, as screwed up as that sounded. He was a GHOUL for crying out loud. It sounded cruel, but that was how it was.

But she never got a chance. Moriarty had heard Jericho's shout and came charging from the back like an enraged Yao Guai. "What the hell are ye doing Gob? Ye don't get to talk, ye just stand there. Ye stand there and you work! I feed ye, I give ye a bed to sleep in, and ye throw it all in my face, ye ungrateful wretch."

Nova looked at Kyra. At first glance the girl was preoccupied with her booze but a second inspection revealed a vein ticking in her temple and her teeth grinding together. The Lone Wanderer was pissed.

The metaphorical shit was clearly about to hit the metaphorical fan.

Nova chewed her lips nervously and looked back over at Gob.

Gob's shoulders were hunched, and he was clearly expecting a blow. Nova, without thinking, stretched out a hand across the bar. Hidden by the glasses and pitchers littering the weatherbeaten surface, she reached out and lightly touched her fingers to his side. The feel of the tips of her fingers against him seemed to give him courage. His shoulders straightened and he looked Moriarty right in the eye.

"Moriarty, please, I wasn't-"

Moriarty's face went purple with rage, and spit flew from his mouth and he could barely speak he was so angry. "Shut yer gob, Gob! Ain't that why I named ye that to begin with, cause ye talk too goddamn much?"

Nova glanced at Kyra and saw the look on the Lone Wanderer's face and froze. The girl's teeth were barred in a homicidal snarl and she was looking at Moriarty rather like the way a rabid dog would eye a fat rabbit.

The volcano blew. The Lone Wanderer threw her hands up in the air, then brought her clenched fists down with a crash onto the dirty bar.

"Fuck!" she screamed.

Nova's face whitened. There were two perfect dents in the metal of the bar, just the size of the Lone Wanderer's fists.

Kyra stood up and jabbed a shaking finger at Moriarty. "You! You are so done! I have had it up to here with you and your- your- I just-...FUCK!"

The Lone Wanderer's combat shotgun was off of it's place on her shoulder and the muzzle was pressed against Moriarty's chest faster than anyone could blink. The shotgun roared and the tight spread of bullets in such close quarters blew Moriarty back into the wall. He crashed against it with a sickening crunch of broken bones. He barely had time to stand before the Lone Wanderer was on him.

She threw aside her shotgun and began to beat the ever living snot out of him with her lead pipe. Jericho had come charging up when the shots were fired, and he tried now to engage the girl but Kyra was too far gone. She threw him off and went back to obliterating the former owner of Moriarty's Saloon.

Nova felt the whiskey shots trying their best to come back up. Moriarty was now nothing more than a pile of meat and gore on the dirty floor. She felt something wet hit her face and when she put up her fingers and touched her cheek, they came away stained red. Nova began to shake. She had never been more afraid in her life watching the armored monster covered in Colin Moriarty's guts screaming bloody murder and tearing the shit out of her former boss.

A warm hand grasped her shoulder. She screamed. She was pulled into a pair of rough arms she recognized as Gob's. His scratchy voice in her ear was whispering over and over to her that it was okay, that he had her. When her brain refused to catch up with her and assert control, he gathered her up and half carried her up the stairs and away from massacre occurring in the bar.

He opened the first door he came to -the guest room- and firmly barred it behind him. He deposited Nova carefully onto the queen sized bed, and she barely registered him moving away. She rocked back and forth, her arms clasped around her knees tightly, as if she let go she might fly to pieces. The room was swimming and she could feel the tell tale burning in the back of her throat. She bent.

And then Gob was back, holding a dented pail under her with his left hand and his right resting carefully on the back of her neck. Nova vomited violently. Everything she'd eaten that day on top of the scotch went into the pail. Her mouth burned and she coughed, feeling like her lungs were about to follow the contents of her stomach into the nasty bucket.

Gob sat quietly next to her stroking her hair until she was done, and when she'd finished he handed her a bottle of purified water and a towel. She wiped her mouth, looking at him greatfully.

"Thanks," she croaked, her throat still on fire.

Gob nodded. He lightly touched her shoulder, then rose and dragged a chair over by the door and sat down heavily.

"Get some rest," he rasped.

She closed her eyes and rolled over and passed out. She knew he'd be there by the door all night, and wouldn't let anyone in to hurt her. She slept.

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When she woke again, it was evening the next day. Gob was gone, but the door was locked, and he'd fixed the handle so well that only a master thief would have been able to get into the room. As far as she knew, only the Lone Wanderer had that skill in Megaton and she was currently AWOL. Judging by the light filtering through the cracks in the wall she had been asleep roughly twelve hours. Nova groaned. Her mouth felt like someone had tried to reupholster it with dirty shag carpet. She sat up, carefully holding her aching head.

"Ugh," she muttered, holding the heavy, throbbing lead mass she currently called her skull, "Never, ever, doing this again."

As she sat there trying to get a hold on the thundering headache she had going on in her brain, she glanced at the little beaten up side table next to the bed. A bottle of purified water sat on it along with a few little tablets of painkillers. She tossed them back gratefully and washed them down with the water.

Then she went in search of Gob.

Creeping down the stairs to the bar, she half expected to find the Lone Wanderer still painting the walls with blood, but everything was quiet. Gob had obviously tried to clean up: the floors were mopped and the broken furniture was piled in the corner waiting to be thrown out. Nova halfheartedly gathered up the cups and plates things and carried them to the sink. She did the dishes slowly, and it began to sink in that Colin Moriarty was finally gone. She had no idea what would happen to the saloon, or to she and Gob. Would they be able to stay? She had no idea where the deed to the property lay, or even if they'd be allowed to have it even if they did find it. She rather expected Jericho to claim ownership, or something like that. It seemed just like something he would do.

When she'd got through all the dishes, wiped down the bar, and thrown out the garbage and Gob had still not returned, she went out looking for him. She didn't have to go far.

She found him of all places on the roof. Gob was pertched precariously next to the sign atop the saloon, repainting it. Nova shielded her eyes against the sun's harsh glare. _'Gob's_' was painted boldly in yellow letters over the weathered white of the previous name. She waved. He saw her and waved back jauntily.

He finished and climbed down like a ninja. He carefully set down his paint can and stood next to her. Together they looked up at the sign that now boldly proclaimed the new ownership of the saloon.

"What'll happen now?" Nova asked him quietly.

Gob glanced at her. "Lucas Simms came by early this morning. We found the deed to the Saloon in Moriarty's stuff as well as my contract...and, well, Simms burned my contract and gave me the deed and the key to the place. The saloon is ours now. You're welcome to stay if you like, I can pay you the same and we can-"

He was rambling. She put a hand gently over his mouth, smiled, and found to her surprise that her face was slightly damp. She hadn't cried in years. How odd.

Gob was still watching her rather nervously, waiting for her reaction. She threw her arms around his middle and hugged him hard. It was strange: in all the years they'd worked together at Moriarty's she'd never noticed just how big and sturdy he actually was. Her head barely reached his shoulder. After a moment his arms came up and around her and hesitantly hugged her back. In the dusk of the setting sun, the air blew over them with an almost frigid chill, but Nova didn't notice. Gob's irradiated body was like a space heater, with legs.

She half registered the sound of the hustle and bustle of Megaton around them, and realized that they were standing there holding each other for the world to see. Nova was not surprised in the least to find that she didn't care one bit.

"We'll be okay," she murmured, "We're here, we've got each other, and we've still got the saloon. It'll be okay."

Gob chuckled and the sound rolled over her and warmed her down to her toes.

She pulled back and looked up at him a little uncertainly. She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. After standing there gaping at him for a bit, she closed her mouth with a click, frustrated. After all that had happened, after she was finally sure and didn't care and wouldn't fight it anymore, she couldn't say it. _I love you_.

Gob slid an arm around her shoulders and tugged her gently back into the bar and she almost cried again. That one simple gesture nearly had the waterworks going again. It said quite plainly that he didn't need to hear it, that he would wait for her and that she could tell him when she was ready. Nova had absolutely no idea what she'd done to deserve him, but she was greateful the Universe would let her keep him.

They would be okay. They still had the saloon, and they had each other. Not a bad way to be in the Capital Wasteland, all things considered.


	3. Eulogy Jones

**Disclaimer**: _I don't own any of Bethesda's game or characters. Kyra, however, is mine. And not the Gingerbread nursery rhyme either, though I tweaked it a bit._

**Author's Note:** _I had soooo much fun tearing up Paradise Falls. First place I came to that I could just go hog wild without losing any karma. I looted, I killed, and I stole. I made those people cry. Now I'm well aware that it's only possible to have one companion at a time in the games, but my favorites were Star Paladin Cross and Charon. So they can play together in the sandbox in these series of fics. Dogmeat was fun, and he reminded me of my own puppy, but he died too easily and I had to leave him at home. Everyone should go and get the schematics from the vamps in the Family. Shiskebab is freakin' AWESOME._

**Warning: **_Again, bit of a language warning. I like saying 'fuck' a lot. Besides, Eulogy's got a dirty mouth too._

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**Behemoth**

**By: **_Lady NeverAfterNon_

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Eulogy Jones reclined on the guard tower in the center of Paradise Falls in a lawn chair, swilling a beer and watching his empire bear fruit. The screams and cries of the slaves, as well as the occasional explosion that signified that another escapee was successfully detained was like fine music to his ears. He smoothed his hands over his snazzy red velvet suit. The gold buttons glinted in the sun, and the crisp lines that only the prewar clothing could offer made him feel pretty fine. Setting his beer down, he took a long drag on his smoke. The warm sun baked him and the light breeze that kissed the sweat on the back of his neck was pure heaven.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Life was pretty fucking beautiful. He had an empire that was practically spawning an army of raiders and slaves, loyal servants that jumped to beat of his every whim, and a steady source of income that moved and did whatever he wanted. He almost could imagine himself King of the Wasteland.

He allowed himself a chuckle.

King of the Wasteland. Now he liked that. Hell, maybe he'd even make himself President. The current self declared President of the Enclave was certainly doing jack all holed up on his oil rig. Now that was a man that was all talk. Sure his eyebots floated over the wasteland like unwieldy flying bowling balls and they packed a bit of a punch when his boys took pot shots at them, but still. That was all. They flew around and generally made a nuisance of themselves. Not like they couldn't be taken out with a few well placed shots from a shotgun or a supersledge. And most baddies hated that supersledge.

If a couple of over sensitive tin can robots was all the Enclave had to offer, than the Capitol Wasteland was as good as his. Those senile old coots on the Poseidon Energy Oil Rig would never see him coming. He would hit them, and he would hit them hard. They would beg him to stop. President Eden would be licking his boots by the time the year was out. He could see it with perfect clarity in his mind's eye. King Eulogy Jones. Hell yes.

He looked out over his compound with pride. With his newborn army of slaves, he would be unstoppable. He sat back and shut his eyes. What a lovely day.

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His eyes slid back open when a shadow fell over him and someone dared to interrupt his much needed beauty sunlight. Clover looked at him with a blank stare and held out another perfectly iced beer on a tray. Eulogy smiled at her bland expression indulgently, and decided to overlook her little misstep. The old girl was doing her job after all, looking after him. Wouldn't be right to work her over on a cause of a little lost sunlight, no indeed. Wasn't proper taste to damage property, and mighty good property at that. And no one would say that Eulogy Jones didn't have proper taste. That saying, where the hell was Crimson? Didn't seem right to have just one woman on his arm. His other arm might get lonely.

He nursed the new beer, propped his feet up on the rail, and closed his eyes, ready for another cat nap. For a moment everything was perfectly peaceful... Well as peaceful as a typical day in Paradise Falls could get. Some bitch in the slave pen was crying about something or another, but he really wasn't in the mood to pay attention or deal with the situation.

The sound of Grouse's low rumble did catch his attention. Grouse was not his best man by far, but there was a reason they kept him at the front gate: the man made a hell of a guard dog. Grouse's bark was loud, and by golly his teeth were huge. Joe Blow wandering by took one look at him and decided it wasn't the right day to start shit and skedaddled.

What really got his attention was that Grouse was talking more that usual, which meant this might be a hard customer that needed more than the usual persuasion. And hard customers usually meant trouble, which meant loss of boys, loss of ammo, and loss of weaponry. And that all meant a downright painful stick in his ass. He straightened slowly, and stretched. His sniper rifle was propped on the grill, ready for his use, and his fingers itched for it.

His eyes slid over to the front gate, peeled for trouble and then he laughed, a scratchy low chuckle that had Clover's gaze snap over to him like a frightened rabbit.

The problem Grouse seemed to be having trouble getting rid of was just some midget girl who looked like she was a few caps short of a Nuka Cola. Eulogy lazily picked up the scope from his rifle and peered through it at Paradise Falls' new visitor.

"Hello, Hello," he murmured, "Welcome to my Parlor."

Now that was one FINE piece of potential merchandise. Clean her up a bit, slap the sass out of her, and get rid of those god-awful dreadlocks, and she'd be a good sell. He squinted. On second thought, better shave them off. Those dreads looked like they didn't even know what soap was, and it looked like there was a strong potential to grow mutfruit in the dirt caked in her hair. She might even have lice. He shuddered. Dreads meant dirty, and dirty did NOT sell.

The wench was now dancing around angrily. Where Grouse's bass rumble could be heard over the entire compound when he was chewing someone out, this chick barely hit a five on the Freak-o-Meter. Surprising. All his women had set the standard for bitching and moaning. Maybe he'd show her personal how to take care of a man, as this lady clearly knew not to blow a man's ears out with her womanly wailing. He chuckled to himself at his own personal joke.

Grouse was quite firmly pointing at her, and she in turn was gesturing wildly at all the shit she had hanging out of her massive pack, as well as the heavily laden ghoul standing quietly behind her. Eulogy rolled his eyes and picked his teeth with a blunt fingernail. Ugh, the wench was just some two bit scavenger looking to trade. What a bore.

Then he did a double take and frowned. He carefully adjusted the lens on his scope, and then peered through it at the ghoul standing just to the left and behind her. Eulogy ground his teeth and clenched the scope in his big hands. It had to be Charon, and if he wasn't mistaken the armored freak that had been concealed by the ghoul's bulk but now was standing there plain as day was a fucking Brotherhood of Steel Paladin.

He ground his teeth in irritation mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Shit. Maybe the bitch wasn't worth it. He knew exactly who this was. The Lone Wanderer, that psycho that had broken out of Vault 101. The girl Three Dog dubbed Crusader, Knight, Hero-whatever her perfect princessness was-of the Waste. The chick who'd taken down the Behemoth in the raider camp up at Evergreen Mills with nothing but a sniper rifle and some plasma grenades. And she'd let him out first, and had been laughing the entire time. The chick who'd singlehandedly hit the Enclave outposts up North and raided them down to their skivies and asked for more, then went and defused the atomic bomb in Megaton like it was practically fucking nothing.

The Lone Wanderer was all kinds of crazy and a first class killer when it came to something she labeled 'not nice'. She may be retarded when faced with computer terminals, even the ones marked 'easy', but give her a shooter and the lure of caps and she was deadly. She was definately not worth it. Not when she had a Steel knight with her, and a fucking behemoth of a ghoul to boot. He'd heard rumors about Ahzrukhal's boy. Charon set the standard of not to be fucked with. And the Brotherhood boys...well, screw with one and the rest of them usually showed up with a whole lot of hardware to say hello.

It was a long, tense four minutes that it took Grouse to convince the Lone Wanderer to bugger off.

Eulogy Jones breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn't been aware he'd been holding when she moved away. Thank goodness for small breaks. Then he frowned. She hadn't moved very far; just a few yards from the entrance to the compound. She was arguing with her companions, giving the ghoul the angry jazz hands while the paladin just stood there. She was now jabbing very sharply at the ground. What the hell...was she...was she telling them to stay? Then she turned around, and when she turned to face the entrance to Paradise Falls he could see the light gleam off of her teeth which were barred in a mad little grin. Shit. She was coming back. He watched in numb horror as she unlaced her Enclave power armor and dropped it on the ground in a messy pile. She strode back to the compound with nothing but the blood red night dress she was wearing and the flaming Shishkebab in her hand.

He paled. Eulogy Jones turned to his boys and rapid fire began barking orders. His shouts had people running...but it wasn't going to be enough. Not nearly enough.

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Kyra did a little dance when she spied the heavily fortified area dubbed Paradise Falls and her Pipboy showed no aggravating little red dots. Finally a place to unload all of the crap she'd accumulated between the Germantown Police Station and Big Town. She glanced at her Pipboy again, and nearly shook her head with disgust. She and Charon were both very nearly at their weight limit, and the thought of all of crap she'd had to leave behind because of it made her ill. Had to be at least three hundred caps worth. Enough to keep her well supplied in stimpaks for at least a week.

The Lone Wanderer growled. She was _so_ not looking forward to the multiple trips it would take to make sure that she got everything. Kyra wasn't proud of her compulsive klepto loot hoarding tendencies, but still- making caps in the Capital Wasteland was freaking HARD. On top of that, she could barely keep her Shishkebab repaired, and it wasn't even worth it to repair the Enclave Tesla armor she'd given herself and Charon as it cost nearly that much in ammo to go hit one of their stupid camps and get another set. All she wanted was for the Universe to give her a break, seriously. At least she had the paladin with her. Star Paladin Cross didn't look like the sort who would play mommy very well, but in this shitbowl of a wasteland, she did a pretty dang good job.

Between Cross and Charon, they cleaned up whatever the Lone Wanderer missed while doing a fabulous job of watching her absentminded butt. Seriously, Charon had taken out a mutant with his shotgun at 100 yards, and Paladin Cross had gone after a raider camp with nothing but her hammer and her flaming sense of justice. Kyra didn't know where she'd be without them. Probably in a mutant's gore bag or strung up like a turkey in a raider camp. Or maybe a part of Dukov's sad collection of wenches. The list went on.

She could hear Charon voicing his opinion of their situation quietly in his usual way: the ghoul was grumbling and growling low in his throat. She pinched the bridge of her nose. The buffout she'd chugged to extend her weight limit was giving her a headache, and it wouldn't hold for much longer. At least it didn't have to hold. A camp this big, it had to have at least one or two traders. Maybe she'd even get to see Crow! The man haggled like a pro, and he was quite pretty to boot. The Lone Wanderer strode up to the gate to Paradise Falls, feeling better already.

Until she was stopped by the dude with the loud bark and the not so big teeth at the front gate. "Hold it right there. Nobody's allowed into Paradise Falls except on Slaver business. And I get to decide what qualifies as Slaver business."

The Lone Wanderer stared. Really, Universe? She ground her teeth in irritation. Not only was this the slaver pit she'd been avoiding for weeks, it also looked like she wasn't going to get to trade caps off of them. Just her luck. The one place around for miles and it turns out it was the place she was attempting to weasel out of dealing with. Ugh.

"Can I...head on up?" Kyra felt like she was ten again and asking Butch pretty please if she could come into his clubhouse, fully knowing that she was going to get the, 'Ew, no, girls have cooties!' standard boy response. This was stupid.

"Well..." he drew it out, watching her for her response and obviously loving the attention, "I don't think so."

Kyra wanted to smack her face into the sandbag pile in front of her. Several times. Hard.

"But," he said slyly, "If you want, I have a mutually beneficial offer for you to think about."

Kyra looked at him tiredly, wondering if she was going to catch a break and seriously doubting it. "Yeah?"

His rather thin mouth quirked a small smarmy smile at her. She almost had to smack herself to keep from doing her 'oh god that's creepy' flail.

"Ya see, I got this Mesmetron thing. It's some kind of stun gun. I'd like you to test it out for me. Should make getting slaves easier." He looked at her rather hopefully, and Kyra knew the Universe would give her bad karma for just standing next to this guy.

Seeing the look on her face, he hurried to continue, "You take this Mezzer. Shoot it at some poor schmuck. While he's in la la land, you slip one of these collars over his head. Be careful with that collar. It'll explode if you tinker with it. Tell the slave to boot it over here pronto, or his head'll pop. This is a list of special targets Eulogy wants enslaved. But feel free to put a collar on anyone you can. I'll pay you for each slave that arrives."

For the space of thirty seconds, Kyra actually considered it. She would most definitely not mind Harkness prancing around in a prewar pinstripe suit, mixing her drinks, or rubbing her feet, or- okay stopping that line of thought right now. She shook her head, banishing the wicked temptations in the back of her mind urging her to play hooky from daddy's goodwill humanitarian mission. Unfortunately, no dice there.

"I'll see you around," she said.

"Oh, uh, okay, here's the list if you change your mind."

Kyra walked away, dejectedly. She knew she should probably hit them, and hit them hard- but she didn't want to come in contact with more lovely things to poke her nose into while simultaneously knowing she couldn't take anything more back with her. She smoothed the crumpled piece of paper absentmindedly and scanned it. She started in surprise, then pushed her face closer to the paper. Kyra did a fair impression of a Charon snarl when she read the names on the dirty gray sheet.

Dammit, she knew most of these people. Hell, she'd practically bonded with Red when they escaped from the Germantown Police station. That girl was a vicious machine with a pool cue. She'd even patched her up for free when they got back to Big Town. Kyra shook her head angrily. If she didn't fetch these people, she knew the slavers would just get some other sucker to do it, or do it themselves. They had to be dealt with.

She turned back to the gate, already cataloging the crap she knew she could afford to dump to make room for the new goodies she was going to get.

The Lone Wanderer was back in business.

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Smoke, fire, and gunshots. His world had shrunk to pretty much those three things. The screaming had started not long after the first shots were fired. For a while he'd stayed with his men swearing violently and promising unending pain for the bitch if she was brought down to the dirt, and promising women and bullets to the man who brought her there. Then, as she continued to carve her way through the ranks with that flaming sword of hers like a demon, it slowly set in. They weren't getting out of this alive- none of them. Eulogy Jones watched in numbed horror as the Lone Wanderer slowly butchered his entire town. The bitch was a fucking juggernaut.

He gulped as she calmly peeled a super sledge from the corpse of one of his boys, slung it over her shoulder, then casually picked up the man's metal helmet. She knelt amid the hail of bullets whizzing through the air and looked at it, turning it this way and that, clearly debating whether it was worth her while. She stood, dropping it into the dirt. And kept coming. For every shot they got on her, one of them fell doing it. She just kept coming.

Eulogy turned and ran, pulling Crimson back with him. Clover was already dead, lying in the dirt like a broken rag doll.

.

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The Lone Wanderer watched the man in the fancy red suit with the sparkly gold buttons run. Run, run, run, as fast as you can, I'm coming for you, Mr. Gingerbread Man.


	4. Fawkes

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing, except for Kyra._

**Author's Note:** _By the way, I KNOW that Fallout lets you do only one companion at a time, but as this is fan fiction I am pulling them all together. My favorites anyway, out of the ones I actually got. There were some I didn't want, like Jericho, and then some I accidentally murdered, like Clover. Oops. Well, she did try to kill me first. I'm adorable like that. Anyway, I like Fawkes, that man is my all time favorite. He's like a tank with legs._

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**The Man Who Cried Mutant**

**By:** _Lady NeverAfterNon_

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"Okay guys, listen up."

The Lone Wanderer, heretofore Hero of the Wasteland, Killer of Enclave Assholes, Exterminator of Deadly Robots, Profound Looter Extraordinaire, etc. was promptly ignored.

Dogmeat had twitched one ear when the **BRINGER OF FOOD** spoke, but when the human flesh bag had no food forthcoming he went back to energetically scratching his itchy back on the rough hewn floor of the Lone Wanderer's house.

Kyra winced. She'd bought the Love Machine House Improvement from Moira, just because she liked sparkly things and wanted her house brighter. She had thought what with her skill at accidentally destroying things that getting rid of a few dirty harem beds wouldn't have been an issue. She hadn't envisioned that the giant damn heart bed would be bolted _and_ welded to her living room floor and that her smelly ass dog would take to rolling in it every day. Ew.

Karma was indeed a bitch. For a moment she wondered what she could have done to deserve this, but when the mental list actually came rolling in she had to shut off that train of thought. Actually, she probably did deserve it, all things considered.

The mess with the Enclave aside, the little things just kept stacking up. Bittercup blowing up had been a complete accident. Seriously, who stands outside and mopes when grenades and bullets are flying around like bloatflies around a dead Brahmin? And who wouldn't steal from Doctor Lesko? The dude was a complete loon, creating an army of giant ants that shot fire from their faces. Seriously. There were some things the Lone Wanderer felt the Universe should give her credit for, but apparently they didn't seem to agree on what contested as good deeds and what should be allowed to slide.

In any case her peeps were still ignoring her.

"Hey!" She bellowed.

The chatter stopped. Fawkes looked up from the deeply involved conversation with Star Paladin Cross over the concept of The Art of War verses the Brotherhood of Steel: Code of Conduct and looked over at the young woman he currently followed and called his leader. The Lone Wanderer had her hands cupped around her mouth, clearly ready to shatter ear drums if they ignored her again.

Bellowing was so unattractive for a young lady and the Lone Wanderer was no exception.

Sure, she had freed him of his prison, but was it entirely proper of a young lady of her stature to be making such a positively bovine noise? Besides, it seemed impossible that so loud and unattractive a sound could come from such a short creature.

He shook his head, resolving to find more etiquette books to leave on her bed upstairs. He knew she no longer even tried to use the one inadequately shaped like a four chambered human blood circulating organ in the main room as the dog had appropriated it for his own private use, and however crass the Lone Wanderer might be she still didn't want fleas.  
At least some things were still held sacred, even in the recesses of her semi questionable mind. The Lone Wanderer may be a lot of things, but at least she didn't cross some lines. Like fleas.

"I'm heading out to Tenpenny Tower. That's were Burke mighta scuttled off to, and I can't break into his damn house. I'm going to shoot him and then I'm going to loot his body and see if he has a key. Anyone up for bringing along tea and cookies?"

Fawkes groaned. Classic Lone Wanderer. She didn't go shopping like a normal girl at the local canteen or the traveling merchants, she shot bad people and then rummaged through their pockets looking for goodies. Not an admirable habit in a young girl. He supposed it might be her dreads; they were clearly addling her brain.

He slowly raised one meaty paw, signifying his willingness to go along. No offense meant to the others, but Fawkes felt that only he was adequately equipped to protect the Lone Wanderer from the Wasteland and from herself. Kyra was excellent at starting trouble, and she solved problems by shooting them. From Raiders to Deathclaws, and the Enclave to Behemoths, the Lone Wanderer spoke with gunfire and blood.

"You could always read Tumblers Today and actually learn how to do it," Charon rasped.

She airily waved a gloved hand at him, "Meh, too lazy. Besides this is more interesting. I'm bored. All I've done for the past two weeks is avoid the Water Purifier and the Brotherhood (here Paladin Cross shot her a glare that could fry a Brahmin Steak) and run errands for Moira. Hopefully this'll stir things up a bit."

She began tying her boots on as she talked and to no one's surprise she ignored the power armor Paladin Cross had carefully laid out on the shelf. Fawkes shook his head as he followed the Lone Wanderer out the door. Sure, she'd worn armor in the beginning but now she just didn't bother and instead preferred to traipse around the Wasteland in nothing but her flaming red nightdress and the chunkiest pair of combat boots she could find.

Fawkes didn't get it. She certainly didn't wear the thing because it was practical. It was bright red, skimpy, and painted her a bright bulls eye that the Wasteland baddies just couldn't miss.

They certainly tried, too. Why, just yesterday they'd dropped round' Arefu and Evan King had taken a pot shot at her the moment her blazing red ass had come into view.

Fawkes felt that while King wasn't necessarily what the Lone Wanderer termed 'stupid senile geezer asshat', his sight did seem to be going. Therefore wearing the reddest most visible garment when visiting a city guarded by a trigger happy gentlemen in the early stages of losing his eyesight and his logic wasn't the brightest thing in the books. He watched her smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from her silk hem. It must be a girl thing. Either that or he just didn't understand the concept of style, he was still trying to figure out which.

The Lone Wanderer strapped her sniper rifle to her back, loaded up on stimpaks, checked her Shiskebab to ensure that it was safely attached to her side, then was tromping out the door without looking to check if Fawkes had followed her. He shrugged his massive shoulders. She needed him. And without him her future wasn't certain.

.

.

If he'd been asked, back in the midst of the timeless nightmare of Vault 87, in what form redemption would come to him, he most certainly would not have imagined a young woman with filthy dreadlocks and dirty mouth. But she'd come in through his front door and instead of falling to the horror of the vault she'd added to it. Instead of her blood adding to the gory decoration, it had been that of his brothers.

Fawkes had not been surprised in the least to find that he was not sorry at all for the corpses of his fellow mutants littering the hall. Instead he'd taken the super sledge she'd handed him and followed her without question. Now he protected her until either or both of them were dead. They had an odd companionship, she and him, they fought more often than they agreed.

Her pigheadedness towards what had generally kept him alive in that infernal room, science and terminals, had them often got them butting heads. But the Lone Wanderer had a ferocious tenacity that Fawkes had to admire, and in her drive he found a kindred spirit. Drive and stubbornness was what had allowed him to reclaim his soul and it was the tie that kept him bound to her side.

As they walked through Megaton the deer eyed citizens scrambled out of their way. They hadn't been happy about allowing a Super Mutant in their midst, but his genteel manner and the Lone Wanderer's habit of shooting anyone who made her mad had turned the tide. Now they generally stayed away, out of fear of him, and out of fear the Lone Wander's sniper rifle that had the teeth from all of the Behemoths she'd killed dangling from the butt of the gun. Bizarre and barbaric, yes, but the method was effective. It kept him from being accosted and kept her from having an excuse to start a fight.

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Once they were a few miles from the city something interrupted him from his reverie.

"My friend!" Inwardly he winced at his grating shout, and he bemoaned the fact that while he'd been able to tame his mind, his vocal cords remained obstinately monstrous, "Is not Tenpenny Tower the opposite direction?"

The Lone Wanderer flashed him a toothy grin and he was struck with the absurdity that while her hair took the form of filthy dreads her teeth were perfectly straight and very, very white.

She waved a hand in a gesture that he'd both become familiar with and had learned to quickly become vexed at. "We'll get there. Eventually."

He shook his green veined head but made no further comment on the matter. The Lone Wanderer was the uncontested scavenger queen of the Wasteland, and those magpie habits drove her to take the most haphazard path to her destinations, looting and burning whatever Raider and Mutant camps happened to be in her way, as well as the occasional unlucky Wastelander that chose to take a shot at her.

Almost as if the Universe read the direction of his thoughts, they were attacked.

Bullets hit the ground in front of them and Fawkes reacted without thinking. His Gatling Laser powered up with a rumbling purr, and not for the first time he was surprised at the reaction time of his huge ungainly body. He couldn't quite remember what he'd been before the change, but he knew it wasn't huge and angry and green. So it always shocked him a bit whenever skulls caved in with his merest touch and bullets hardly did more than pinch.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Mutants predictably followed their gunshots; an Overlord towing two Berserkers.

"No more games…Time to die!"

"I'll wear your spine around my neck, human!"

Inwardly Fawkes winced. It was yet another testament to how far his brethren had fallen, by the battle cries they chose to present to their enemies. Quite frankly it was irritating. Fawkes felt it was his duty see that if they were not educated, than they must be destroyed. They were a danger to themselves, as well as the people of the Wasteland.

The first few mini gun shots hit the dirt in front of him and the next struck his torso and he felt them like a angry sting of bees. He heard the Lone Wanderer shriek angrily and saw her chasing after a Super Mutant Overlord. The giant green monstrosity was trying to hit her, but she was too fast and Fawkes caught a glimpse of the look of maniacal glee on her face as she darted through his legs and around him, cutting and slashing and burning. It, he thought as he'd brought his Gatling Laser around and halfheartedly watched it mow down the remaining attackers, was a chilling thought indeed. He wondered what it said of his own humanity.

The little group of Super Mutants were no match for either of them and it didn't take long for the Lone Wanderer to sniff out their camp, and soon she was up to her elbows in gore bags.

Fawkes watched her as she waved a fist full of bloody bottle caps triumphantly in her viscera covered fist and wondered whether their roles should have been reversed. She was surprisingly blood thirsty, for a human. Then he mentally smacked himself. That was an uncouth and positively rude assumption, especially for the Redemption that he had sworn to protect.

Whatever her methods, she'd saved his life. He wouldn't slander her. Though, he amended, it still wouldn't stop him from leaving Etiquette and Zen books on her bed and in her pack. That wasn't insulting, that was just being helpful.

Her mutterings drew his attention and he found her mumbling furiously to herself as she looted the dead Super Mutants' pockets and angrily threw the worthless things as hard as she could, watching them shatter against the rocks with a certain morbid pleasure. He sighed. It as the age old Lone Wanderer temper tantrum: Why Oh Why Can My Enemies Not Have Proper Weaponry? And How The Hell Do They Get Hits On Me With This Shit?

He practically knew the speech by heart and couldn't give her an answer, or at least one that she would like. Of course her frail body would take more damage than his own or that of his green brethren. It was obvious, she just didn't have to be happy with it.

"Stupid green lummoxes, present company excluded of course," she looked up at him slightly apologetically.

Fawkes was used to it, quite frankly. He often wondered whether she saw him in the same light as she quite obviously saw his brothers. He wondered how she viewed herself, even. The Workings of the Universe were a constant mystery.

"Hey," she said, in that odd little tone that signified that she was going to be poking her nose into something, and that people might get angry when she did it, "Smoke."

Fawkes looked where she was pointing and her expression reminded him distinctly of a dog scenting a kill.

He looked, squinting, and did indeed detect smoke on the horizon, as well as a sickeningly sweet smell that his gut remembered all too well, and with revulsion. He suddenly did not want her anywhere near the source of that smoke. He was afraid of what they would discover and what he might discover about her.

Her sense of smell was either not as good as his or she did not recognize the source of the smoke. She was pulling back the slide on her sniper rifle, checking the rounds, then raised it to her shoulder using the scope to get a sense of what they were up against.

He'd been afraid of that. Her curiosity was going to be the death of him. He had to stop her, deter her somehow.

"Something…troubling you, my friend?"

It was the best he could do, as he could not actually tell her "no", suggest a course correction. She was his Redemption and he followed her unquestionably, and if that meant into the darkness and facing an evil equal to that of Vault 87, so be it.

She'd glanced back at him when he'd spoken, but had resumed her steady walk, peering through the scope and moving steadily towards what Fawkes knew could ultimately lead to their destruction. And if not destruction, it was still not going to be good.

He was surprised when they came to a quaint little three building town instead of the raider camp or mutant hell hole he'd been expecting. The houses were clumsily cared for despite the war torn touch that the apocalypse had left. There were children playing in the street and laundry hanging on the line. For a moment he could almost believe that maybe he'd made a mistake, but there was no mistake. That smell hung in the air, that sick heavy sweet smell that brought back the horror of the Vault. He glanced at the Lone Wanderer, dread further sinking his spirits. He couldn't warn her, couldn't advise her. He could only stand by her side and see what decision she would ultimately make.

Upon seeing the children in the street the Lone Wanderer had shouldered her sniper rifle with an almost affronted snort. That certainly made Fawkes feel better; that semblance of normalcy in a situation that could either go bad or turn out for the best.

While he felt silly at being amused at watching her annoyance that she wasn't going to get to brawl, it also meant that he had a feeling to cling to; that maybe it would turn out okay. He could only sit and watch and see what she would do.

The choice was hers to make, but he didn't have to like it. Her choice would affect his own.

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Kyra attached her sniper rifle, a bit miffed that she wasn't going to get to kill anything. Bugger. No killing meant no looting, and no looting meant having playing nice. Oh well. She could play nice, and then again, she thought watching the too hot to trot gentlemen coming up to confront her, she was also good at not getting caught. She wouldn't steal from a little kid, though some of the assholes in Little Lamplight didn't count, but a Wasteland jackass who had something to prove and didn't mind steamrolling whomever was in his way was fair game as far as she was concerned.

And the dude walking towards her had all the markings of said jackass in his prewar checkered shirt and pressed slacks.

"Well, hi there! Welcome to Andale! I'm Willy Wilson, though folks just call me Bill. Is there anything I can do for you?"

Not really knowing what she could possibly say to that overly cheery sugar bomb greeting, she just presented him with her best all teeth smile. Normally when she smiled people looked uncomfortable and backed away, but this dude just smiled wider and moved into her personal bubble. For some reason he made her skin crawl. There were people in the wasteland that gave her the heebie jeebies, but they were usually in raider camps and mutant pits. Not in a sparkly unicorns and roses suburbs environment.

Something was wrong here. She found herself backing up and didn't realize it until she actually bumped into Fawkes's substantial bulk. His giant meaty paw came to rest on her shoulder, and it was only then she realized that she'd actually been backing up. Oh no. Kyra Mcrea did not retreat or run away. Just because this dude creeped the hell out of her…she would not run away.

"So, uh, what do you, uh, do here?" She floundered, not really knowing what to say to his thousand watt smile.

"I feed my family and I love my wife and daughter, what else more is there to life stranger?"

Oh god, even worse. Every now and then she'd run across someone who had no idea the world was in the shitter, and they filled her ears with their crackass crazy and their everything is fine speeches. She usually kicked rocks as soon as possible and it looked like this was going to be no different. Blast, yet another little pit stop where she couldn't really do anything, merely wander around and ask lots of dumb questions while attempting to figure out whatever drama was plaguing whichever schmuck.

She looked up, because ol' Willy had kept talking."Family first, I always say! And any man who says anything different is saying something wrong. And you should hit that man. With a stick."

Oh. Dear. God.

What do you say to that? What can you possibly say to that? The Lone Wanderer was flabbergasted. This dude was obviously bonkers but she couldn't actually gank him as he hadn't actually done anything besides over do it on the super creepy.

"Okay then," she said, "I'm just going to…go over here. C'mon Fawkes."

Willy Wilson watched them move off and she could feel his eyes drilling into her back as she walked away.

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When they'd gone around the side of what was labeled on the mailbox as the Smith house and were out of sight as near as she could tell, she did her gross flail...Fawkes watched the Lone Wanderer jump around and slap at her dress as though invisible bugs were crawling all over it whilst muttering ew ew ew, oh god ew, over and over again. He was quite familiar with her odd little dance; not a lot creeped the Lone Wanderer out, but when she did she went into a sort of epileptic shock that involved not only her nerves but her entire body as well. She tended to punch, on top of flailing, as Fawkes had learned the hard way. It had been his misfortune to be the one to accompany her when she ran into one 'Mr. Dukov', and that had certainly not ended well.

To her credit she hadn't shot anyone, merely shanghaied one of his hookers, but she'd still done what she termed The Gross Flail the moment she'd exited the Dukov premises.

All in all, whenever he detected someone that might give her the so called 'heebie jeebies', he thought it best to play it safe and stand a safe distance away.

A child's voice pulled the Lone Wanderer out of her flail in record time, Fawkes was impressed.

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"You're new here aren't you?"

Kyra had to stop herself from randomly stabbing her Shiskebab in the general direction of the voice.

"Because stabbing people without giving them a chance to introduce themselves is bad," she mumbled to herself, carefully going over the litany Fawkes had made her remember after she'd accidentally shot Wolfgang Puck.

She looked for the sound, finally having to look somewhere down around her knees. Suddenly she was glad she hadn't reacted first and thought about things later, because killing a little kid was not on her accidental to do list.

He stared up at her with impossibly blue eyes, and a grubby countenance that is appropriate for all small children who play outside.

"Wow!" he continued talking rapid fire, and had obviously not noticed that she'd initially wanted to stab him, "I never get a chance to talk to the new people! Dad always takes care of them before I get a chance."

Take care of them, eh? The Lone Wanderer frowned. That could be a perfectly benign thing to say, maybe they didn't like outsiders. She'd met plenty of people who just wanted to be left alone, and she could respect that. Most of the time. But Willy Wilson had struck her as overly friendly in a severely creepy sort of way. Her trouble radar and asshole detection sensors where shrieking at her, and while she smiled back at the baseball caped tot looking up at her, inside her head gears were whirring. Something was going on here, and it was time to do what she did best: snoop, and possibly kill things.

"Do you like living in Andale?"

The Lone Wanderer wisely decided not to say Creepy As Fuck-Dale, thought she wanted to very badly. Fawkes wouldn't have smacked her upside the head like Charon might've, but there would have been an extreme influx of etiquette books stuck in her shit. Paladin Cross would have simply punched her. She still had the bruises from last week when she made several dirty limericks involving Princess in Little Lamplight. Honestly it wasn't like the little brat was sheltered or anything.

"It's okay, I guess. There aren't a lot of kids around here and no one who comes to visit stays around long."

Huh, fancy that.

"Dad says it could be worse," Junior mumbled, "that there are starving kids in other places. But still, I wish I had more kids to play with."

This was getting them no where. "What do your parents do?"

"The same thing that all parents do!" he told her, looking at her like she'd grown a third eye, " My mom cooks and cleans the house and my dad goes to work with Mr. Wilson. They work in the basement, or sometimes in Mr. Wilson's shed. Dad says that when I'm older, I'll come work with him and learn the family business!"

Yeah, the family business of batshit insane. She snorted. At least she had something to work with now. There were two certain locations that were now just begging her to pay a visit. She cracked her knuckles, eager to get to work the moment eyes were looking away form her bobby pin ninja fingers.

Junior could obviously sense that she was beginning to lose interest, because he kept talking, talking about his creepy little town in order to hold her conversation. The kid obviously didn't get out much.

"Andale's swell! Except…I wish there were more kids. And my dad says that I'm gonna have to marry smelly ol' Jenny Wilson some day." He scuffed a dirty sneaker in the dirt.

He now had the Lone Wanderer and Fawkes' undivided attention. They were both watching him now, and then they glanced at each other. The Lone Wanderer couldn't really read her companion's expression but his golden green eyes glittered at her like emeralds in sunlight. Normally he didn't really approve of her methods or her meddling but she got the distinct sense that this time he was giving her the go ahead. She'd known that initially he'd wanted to avoid this place, for whatever reason. But now the jolly green giant was okay with whatever she was going to get herself into, like he was psyching himself up. Which meant she'd have a big decision to make, involving good and evil and the fate of the Universe.

Oo rah.

Kyra gave Junior a sloppy salute. "See you around kiddo."

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The Lone Wanderer squatted in the dirt and carefully inserted a bobby pin and her flathead screwdriver into the lock of the Wilson's Shed. The old lock was half rusted, and expertly finagled to where only a master thief would able to gain access. Interesting. What could a shitty old rusty shed have to hide? New toys? Visions of guns and bottle caps and stimpaks dancing in her brain, The Lone Wanderer jimmied the handle and the door swung open with a creak.

Instantly the smell of decomposing meat hit her like someone had just hauled back and punched her in the face.

Eyes watering, she and Fawkes moved into the shadowy gut of the shed and it took a moment for her vision to adjust. She heard Fawkes's strangled growl and she hurriedly blinked the sunspots from her eyes, and her own narrowed when she could see in the dark interior.

Human skeletons stripped to the bone hung suspended from the ceiling, the meat methodically cut away with cold precision like one would a cow. Other bodies sat on the counter, halfway through being processed. The dead Wastelander's expressions were ones of terror, mouths open and sightless glassy eyes were staring and not seeing...Fawkes felt sick.  
The interior of the shed had been exactly what he'd expected, and he glanced at the Lone Wanderer's face. She would have to make a choice now; the citizens of the town would know they'd been in the shed and seen the dark secret. She would have to choose whether to accept them or reject them.

If she accepted them he'd have to leave her. Being her companion was hard enough, as most of the decisions she made involved people dying. If he had to leave her he thought his heart might break. He didn't quite know why, it was unexplainable.

The Lone Wanderer's face was completely still as she poked the bodies and rifled through the refrigerator, going through the contents and carefully setting them out on the shelves. When all the meat packets were laying next to the bodies she turned right around and walked out of the shed, saying nothing. Fawkes was worried. For once he couldn't read her. The Lone Wanderer usually operated in varying stages of anger, explosions of psychotic laughter, and weird logic. He'd been trying to get her to find her inner calm for ages; it was very disturbing to see it actually happening.

He wasn't surprised to find the adults of Andale clustered around the entrance to the shed, wearing identical expressions of anger and fear and hunger. The Lone Wanderer said nothing, merely watched them.

Mr. Smith stepped forward, face hardening. "Hey there stranger, I got something that I want to talk to you about."

The Lone Wanderer's face was calm, serene even. "Oh?"

He gestured at her with the AK-47 he clutched in his hands. "I couldn't help but notice that you were poking around in Bill's shed. So, did you find what you were looking for in there?"

"Yes, I think so." The Lone Wanderer was smiling now, friendly, open, and a far cry from her usual psychotic grin.

Mr. Smith apparently did not like what he read in her face. "I'm disappointed in you stranger, so quick to judge us. Did you ever stop to think that I have a family to support here? Judge not, lest ye be judged, as the good book says. Honestly, how many people have you killed? The only difference between us is that I'm bringing home the bacon for my family."

"I've killed nobody that couldn't defend themselves, or that didn't deserve it," The Lone Wanderer said simply, "There is a bit of a difference between killing and murder, not to mention killing people like animals."

His lip curled, and behind him Bill and their wife sisters tensed. "I don't think I like your tone," Smith said, "There's nothing wrong with me, we've lived this way for decades."

The Lone Wanderer stared at him for a long, long time. Fawkes watched her intently. Now was the time, now she'd have to choose. He honestly could not say what choice she'd make, and it frightened him.

"I think," The Lone Wanderer said finally, "That I have to kill you. Goodbye Mr. Smith."

Before he could bring the muzzle of his machine gun up to bear the Lone Wanderer had lunged forward with her flaming Shiskebab like a demon and his head had flown off to bounce at his wife's feet. Both women had screamed and Bill had jumped forward the moment Mr. Smith's body crumpled. He was no match though. He'd fallen before The Lone Wanderer's sword and the wife sisters had disintegrated the moment Fawkes had flicked on his Gatling Laser.

It was over in seconds. They stood, surveying the carnage, neither saying a word. For once The Lone Wanderer did not raid any pockets or steal anything from the bodies. She marched over them and to the main street.

They were just in time to see Old Man Harris usher the two now orphaned kids into his home. For a moment his eyes met The Lone Wanderer's, and it was understood that he would now care for them properly, and it was also understood that when she passed through here again that if the dark habits were continued, they would all die.

Then he slammed his front door.

Kyra turned slowly to look at her companion standing beside her. "Do me a favor?" she whispered.

Fawkes merely looked at her. It went without saying. She would ask, and he would do anything for her.

She flicked a hand at the shed. "Light it up."

He loaded a nuke into his launcher and in seconds the whole thing was in flames. They watched it burn for a bit, flames dancing in colors of gold and red, like souls escaping from their trapped cages. When the thick black smoke was spiraling to the sky and the flames were almost out, the Lone Wanderer turned to the Wilson's house and lit that up too. Ash rained down like snow and the sky was black from the smoke.

It was only when the air smelled like ash and a thin film of grey coated their skin and made them look like ghosts that they left.

.

.

He watched the stiff curve of the Lone Wanderer's spine as she strode out of Andale. He was struck by the stiffness in her shoulders and the bands of muscle standing out in her skinny arms. He would have thought that out off all people that would not have bothered her. Odd. She was frozen and tense and he suddenly had an epiphany. Contrary to what he'd thought, that she was merely a heartless bitch willing to slaughter and kill at the first amusing whim…well, he amended, that first part was true. The Lone Wanderer did have an unhealthy tendency to pick fighting as a first choice in resolving conflicts. But perhaps all was not lost. He had seen a side of the girl in that split second. She'd dropped her guard and shown him her face, and while it might not have been her true face necessarily it was a face buried deeper than most.

He'd sorely misjudged her.

The horror of Andale had shocked them both. And while it was horrendous, yes, it also showed him that all was not lost with her. She dealt with trauma and fear with blood and gunfire, the only way she apparently knew how.

She was human just like he was. He was the monster without and she was the monster within, and yet they were both one and the same.

He smiled, as much as his fierce visage was able. For the first time he didn't see the dreads or the red hooker dress. He saw a young woman forced to adapt and to deal with a terrible situation and face a horrific reality, and deal with it the best she could.

He'd face this with her, help her as much as he was able. They were going to save the world. He just hoped the Wasteland was ready for them.


End file.
